Love's Causality
by SleepingSeeker
Summary: A catastrophic encounter between Donatello and new Foot technology leaves him irrevocably injured. From this tragic event emerges something that, should it have happened at any other time, would have made his life complete. How can he accept one precious gift in exchange for all that he once was? Can someone accept love when one cannot accept life? DonxApril (?)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:**So, I was thinking about April and Donatello but also this evening, I was messing around and reading words - I love words - thinking about them, their origins, meanings, uses and quotes about the meanings and themes, etc. Well, I came across the word causality and … well…erm, this just . . . sort of happened…

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_'Causality is an active relationship, a relationship which brings to life some thing new, which turns possibility into actuality.'_ –Dialectical Materialism (A. Spirkin)

**Love's Causality**

**Chapter 1 - A Cause**

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His left hand, his dominant hand, what remained of it, was shaking; despite pinching his elbow and forearm between his knees to help steady it. He was bent over at an angle, behind the crates, listening to his brothers finish the battle with the techbots. The newest assault weaponry that Baxter had developed for the Shredder. A mix between soldier and airborne drone, Mikey had dubbed them Skippers because of the way they'd move: a series of quick skips until they'd become airborne for short bursts of time hovering twelve feet off the ground; firing lasers down on them. They were not playthings. They were heavy weaponry. And he and his brothers were not prepared. Not for something like this.

He'd shouted to his brother who stood gaping and trying to come up with a clever name as the four drones came at them to get to cover. That's when he was hit. The laser tore through his flesh with a searing jolt that incinerated his bo and left him to stand in shock as he watched his flesh burn away, revealing the shockingly white bones of his hand and wrist between the blackened muscle and tendons. He didn't register pain at all. In that moment there was only the shock of the impact. The shock of the sight of skin and meat disintegrating before his eyes.

"My hand," he said, still staring, numb and rooted to the spot. Out in the open. A pair of barrels raised and took aim. Twin dots, red and glowing merged on a point at his temple. Raph had barreled into him. Saved him. Had he stood but a second longer he would've had a skull for a head.

_What was I thinking? Bonehead move, to not get to cover immediately_, he thought and giggled at the ridiculous imagery and choice of wording. He looked up, momentarily giving up on trying to wrap his badly injured hand. He realized that the shock was hitting him now, full force. That was bad. Shock could kill you. That or lasers to the skull. Again he giggled and shook his head, tears running down the sides of his cheeks; hot against the chilled skin.

Vaguely, he realized how cold he'd become, barely able to keep grasp of the bandage he was trying to work around his injury. It fell onto the floor next to one knee. His fingers were scrambling as they tried to take hold of the end of the bandage. But his arm would not stop quaking and his fingers felt like they were attached to someone else's body. His injured arm kept popping free from between his knees, slippery from the blood. He snagged the end of the ragged bandage between numb lips, held it fast between gritted, slightly chattering, teeth. He grimaced as he attempted to twine the end around his hand and wrist once more. At least the heat cauterized the arteries for the most part. Still there were enough blood vessels spilling his precious fluids onto his legs and floor in front of him.

The room spun. He pitched to one side and caught himself with his hip. His brothers were yelling about finishing the last one. Leonardo was ordering them to flank and strike. He hoped no one else was hit. By the sounds of the battle, he doubted it. Besides, only he would stand stock-still in the center of a room after telling someone else to get to cover. What did Raph call him all the time . . . _genius_? He giggled once more, dropping the end of the bandage that was held between his teeth to flutter over his chest.

"Oh, I'm a genius all right," he whispered and his voice sounded funny in his ears. Choked. He didn't recognize it. He took in a shuddering breath. He braced the back of his head against the crate and closed his eyes for a moment.

It hurt. It hurt worse than anything he'd ever had to endure before. And he could only push back the cold rationality, the calculations of his odds of recovering full use of hand after such massive damage. Of what this injury would mean for him. For his future. He tried to move the blackened stumps of flesh that were once his fingers. He scowled and grimaced, sucking in his breath. He gripped his wrist, wincing in pain and tried again. Nothing. _Not nerve damage, please, I won't be able to use this hand properly if the nerves are severed._ He frowned and stared at the bones showing through the lumps and strings of the translucent inner flesh and sinew between the bits of charred chunks of muscle. Of his hand, there was very little left, actually. Even if he got home, hell, if he was home right now, in this very instant, there was very little any of them could actually do to fix this. Not to mention that the chances of healing without developing a serious infection were slim.

And if that happened . . . The trembling turned to quaking and his body felt as if he'd been dipped in ice water. The word, _amputation_, filled his mind. He choked on a sob.

No. He couldn't give up. There was always a chance, right? He wiped the sweat from his chin with his shoulder and blinked twice, trying to clear his blurred vision. Wondering why he couldn't see properly. _Can't stop now. Push the logic away. _ What was Leo always on about? _Pushing forward. Onward. Charging ahead, or was that Raph? Where there's life, there's . . .something,_ he couldn't remember the quote. _Oh yeah, a chance. A hope_. He shook his head and rocked. Something like that. Yes. Hope. He had to stay hopeful. What would April think if she saw him now? Giving up so easily. Giving into his fear like a coward.

_I'm sure I'll be fine_, he lied to himself. But like Leo, Donatello was a poor liar. Even when it came to lying to himself. _Just fine. It's not so bad. I'll be fine._

Of course, he didn't have a state of the art facility he was running to for treatment. He didn't have a staff of highly trained surgeons ready to go to work on him immediately upon arrival. _Think positive, Donnie! Master Splinter always says it helps! Let's see, what do I have? I have a lab in the sewers that would make a refugee camp look like the Mayo Clinic and a large rat to attend to my wounds._ He giggled through grinding teeth and blurring tears. _I'm fucked_.

Still, he set to the task of using his thumb and finger to pinch the bandage from the floor and begin again. Why was this so hard? He sat forward, folding over his arm and bent legs; swearing in frustration and despair, but his voice was weaker now and his cursing was a mere murmur.

"_Dammit_. Oh, god . . ."

Mikey fell next to him. Voice hysterical and too loud in his ears, "Donnie! They're gone. Are you . . ."

He jumped and shuddered. The bandages that had made it around his wounds weren't wrapped securely and they spiraled off his forearm like a spring. He watched it happen with a morose sense of detachment. He turned his head to look up at Michelangelo. It was hard to see. Was the room filling with smoke? All he could make out were Mikey's blue eyes. They seemed huge as they bounced between the mess of jagged flesh that remained of his hand and his other brothers running towards him.

"I'm in shock," he said in a calm voice and his eyes rolled up into his head. He teetered and felt Mikey's hands, so hot they felt as though they were searing through his flesh, catch him.

"Hurry guys! He's gonna pass . . ."

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A/N: I know, I, Alone comes first, then Tender Trap III and Lost in the Gloaming, but I just had to get this down and posted. Planning it to be short, but for now, I'll just leave this here.


	2. Tempting Fate

**Chapter 2 - Tempting Fate**

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April's eyes cracked open as the sound came again. The steady repeating buzz of something mechanical. Annoyed and with blurred vision, she scanned her nightstand for the source of the noise. There next to the alarm clock, vibrating like an angry over-sized beetle was her T-phone. Her eyes snapped open and she snatched it off the stand as she sat up. She flipped it open as she noted the time. Four a.m. _Ugh, this better be important._

"Yeah, hello?" she croaked.

The line was static and then there was a pause. Her frown deepened. She rubbed one eye. There was a confused jumble of sounds in the background. Metal scraping, shouts, Master Splinter barking orders, then wheels or something squealing. She listened harder. Her blood ran cold as she realized with a start that it wasn't metal. Someone in pain. Someone was making that sound. Then his voice came on, overriding the chaos. Raphael. His voice was thick.

"April," he paused.

"Y-Yeah, Raph. What's going on? What's that sound? Is . . . Is someone hurt?" she asked stupidly, knowing just by the way he said her name that he was upset.

"You better get down here."

"W-Wait! Raph, who . . ." her voice stuck in her throat and she couldn't finish the question.

There was another pause and she distinctly heard Master Splinter order Mikey to get the electric blanket, that he was in shock.

"Just hurry up," came Raphael's terse reply.

She tossed the over-stuffed backpack to one side and vaulted over the turnstiles. Still in her pajama bottoms and a sweat shirt, sneakers thrown on without socks. She had packed a few things in case she would have to stay for a while in the lair. She wasn't sure what was telling her to plan ahead like that, but she didn't question her instinct. Ever since being taken by the Kraang, she trusted more and more on that inner voice to guide her. She searched the room for any sign of anyone. The lair was quiet. But it wasn't the hush of a peaceful morning. It wasn't the sleepy silence just before going to bed. This was an ominous cloak of withheld breath. Of invisible fingers choking the sound from the air. Leaving the occupants of the room mute and pale.

Mikey stood up from the couch, rising as she moved into the living room. He looked terrified. Her heart sped up but her mind remained calm. She counted down. Two. Raphael was one. Mikey was two. Where was Leonardo? Where was Donatello?

"What happened?" she asked in a mostly steady voice, swallowing back her fear.

Mikey reached out and took her hands in his. She noticed how clammy they were and how they trembled. His mouth opened and closed and he shook his head.

"Easy. First just tell me if everyone's okay."

He shook his head again and in a strangled voice he said, "Donnie."

April felt a lightheaded giddiness hit her. A visceral blow somewhere between her heart and her stomach. Then the room tipped. The next thing she knew, Mikey was supporting her. Her legs would not do their job. Blinking in confusion, he eased her into the love-seat just behind her. Her heart was hammering and her mouth was dry. And all she could think was, _Not Donnie. Not him. Not him._

She was babbling and snapped her mouth shut as the words she was saying hit her, "But I never . . . I haven't . . . I . . . haven't had a chance to-" What was she saying? What was she feeling? It was happening too fast. It couldn't be over. Not now. _Not him_. Mikey's voice broke through the jumbled mess of her mind before she spiraled out of touch again.

"Oh, gosh, April. I-I'm sorry. I-I didn't mean to . . . he's okay. Well, not really. But still breathing, I mean. Yeah, he's alive," he chuckled then, a nervous sound, almost hysterical. "He saved me. I-I was standing there and trying to think of a name . . . b-but I didn't think they'd, uh, I wasn't thinking. As usual. I'm so stupid." He ducked his head and suddenly the color of his face shifted and he looked like he was about to be sick. "I'm so stupid," he repeated in a small voice.

She licked her dry lips and exhaled. "Mikey, shhh, no. Don't say that. Why don't you . . . just, start from the beginning."

He nodded. "Right. Okay. The beginning. I was . . . I was playing Space Heroes Artic Adventure when Donnie got a-a message thingy on his Kraang tracker thing and I uh, well, we went and then, there was this big boat docked outside a huge warehouse with all these Kraang-bots unloading crates and then we snuck up," he indicated with his fingers pressing into his palm like legs walking. "And Raph was like, 'let's go kick ass!'" he said in a fair imitation of his grumpy brother. Then shifted his voice into a more deep and commanding tone when he spoke for Leonardo, "Leo was like, 'No, we should scout around the building first.' And they started to argue and that's when Donnie and I slipped inside. I saw them first. I thought they were really cool at first . . . like something out of one of Leo's space shows."

April sat up as Raphael bolted from the lab, interrupting Mikey's retelling of what had happened.

"Why are you sitting around for, Mikey," he snapped. Then spotting April, he froze, eyes going wide. "Oh, uh, April. Did Mikey tell you what happened?"

"He was starting to. You fought Kraang?" Before she could ask anything else, he cut in.

"Something like that. Don got hurt." He put up his hands as she jumped to her feet. "Master Splinter says he'll be okay, but . . . b-but . . ."

_"What!?"_ she shouted, and instantly regretted the outburst as both brothers jumped. But she was so frightened and no one was actually telling her what had happened. She needed answers and needed them _now_.

"His hand. His left hand. It got hit. With one of those lasers." He rubbed his face and crossed his arms, staring at the floor between them. "I only got a quick look, Leo and Master Splinter wouldn't let me see . . ."

April didn't know when she did it, or how she managed to find the strength in her legs to do so, but she had crossed the room and had placed one hand on Raphael's arm, the other was pressed hard against her churning stomach.

He panted and swallowed then added, "It was burned. Really badly. Like almost _gone_."

Mikey made a soft desperate noise behind them. "It's all my fault."

For now, April focused on Raph as he went on, ignoring the way her vision was darkening at the edges. "It didn't look like much was left." His chin trembled and his eyes got huge and glassy. He straightened suddenly; wiping his eyes roughly with the back of his hand. He squinted and reemerged with a determined expression on his face.

"He was out. But now he was waking up and he's in a lot of pain. I gotta get the water and alcohol. Mikey," he snapped and Michelangelo jumped. "Sensei wants his herbs." The youngest gave him a blank look. "You know, the ones he uses when he needs to knock us out! In the little cabinet by his personal junk." Mikey blinked. Raph hollered, "The small black bag by the stuff we ain't supposed to touch!" With that Mikey nodded and dashed to Splinter's chambers and headed directly to the small cabinet full of things that were off-limits but each of them knew exactly what was inside. Special candles and incense and herbs and other odds and ends that were often peeked at but never removed. Raph went back to rushing from the kitchen to the lab, leaving April to stand in frightful misery.

His hand.

His hand was burned.

Not much left.

Her eyes shot to the lab door. The room that Donatello usually spent most of his time in; inventing, experimenting, working. What would he do without the use of his dominant hand? She knew he was a lefty. Had teased him often about it being worse than only having three fingers because of the lack of decent tools for left-handed folks. She ran a hand through her hair, feeling sick and wanting only to be next to him. But unless they told her otherwise, she would not get in the way. Donatello deserved every chance he had to recover and if they needed space to work on him, she would not crowd them. There'd be time to support him afterwards. Right? Fear rocked her.

She shook her head and banished any doubt from her mind; chased away the irrational desire to run back home as fast as she could. No way was she going to bolt now. Donatello was going to need her. And whatever it took, she would be there for him.

"Hold him, Leonardo."

"I-I'm trying," Leo ground out as he held Donatello's shoulders back, one arm wrapped around Donatello's throat, doing his best to keep his brother still. But Donnie, despite being unconscious, continued to squirm and buck. Moaning and grinding his teeth.

"Do not try! _Do_!" Splinter growled and Leonardo flinched.

Splinter applied the alcohol and Donatello bucked furiously. He knocked Leo back and off the table. His eyes popped open and he screamed as his legs kicked and jerked. His body shuddered and he curled to one side, whimpering and howling in pain.

_"Leonardo!"_

Leo scrambled to his feet and moved to hold his brother down as Donatello thrashed against him. A fist slipped free and struck Leonardo in the snout. His vision exploded in a flash of pain. He shook it off, eyes watering from the pain but also from the exertion. He grappled and locked his brother's long limb in place. But Don continued to buck and struggle; groaning and grunting as Splinter did his best to clean the ravaged remains of his son's hand and wrist. Twice more his injured arm jerked and Splinter felt his son shudder in pain as he gripped him harder. He spun on Leonardo.

"If you cannot be of use, then send Raphael back in here!"

"H-Hai, Master," Leo replied in a strained voice, staring at his brother's body as he redoubled his efforts to keep him still. His heart was hammering against his rib-cage and he was having trouble keeping hold due to the amount of blood now covering his hands. His eyes blurred and he swore under his breath as his feet slid to brace himself better and he fumbled once more.

His father needed him to remain calm but he was losing his grip on that as well. He knew he should run out and fetch Raphael, should admit that he was doing the best that he could, and failing to be of any use whatsoever, but Splinter had just sent Raphael out of the room to catch his breath after he nearly fainted a moment ago. Mikey wouldn't come near the room. It was up to him. His father was counting on him to stay strong. He couldn't let him or Donatello down. He pushed away his fear and did his best to fortify himself.

But he couldn't blot out the sounds Donatello was making from the terrible pain. The groaning that rose to sharp pitched whines of anguish. His eyes kept going from Donatello's ashen face to his brother's hand. Kept seeing the bones, the tendons stretched and torn, the blackened peeled skin, and the blood . . . the blood. It was on everything. Sticky and syrupy. Thick and wrong. Just . . . wrong. The smell of burnt flesh like something rancid and broiled, the coppery raw scent of the blood was too strong.

Suddenly the room was spinning and the colors grew garish and too vivid. His gorge rose and he turned his head in time to be sick on the floor. When he surfaced, Splinter was looking over his shoulder at him. He shrank into himself as the disappointment in his father's eyes pierced him; pinning him like an insect under glass. But an instant later, Splinter's countenance softened.

"Fetch Michelangelo with my bag. Get some fresh air."

Feeling more than useless, Leonardo scrambled to the door and yanked it open. Mikey was standing outside with the bag in his fists. Beyond him, April was kneeling on the floor next to Raphael, offering him a mug of something steaming. She looked up. Her eyes fell onto his blood stained hands and she blanched.

Mikey's eyes roved over Leonardo's shoulder, face pale. "Can I stay out here?" Mikey asked, in a small voice, his head low between his shoulders.

Leo moved to clap him on the shoulder, but remembering the blood, stopped himself. He nodded. "It's fine. I'll bring this in."

From across the room, April asked, "Can I see him? Is he okay? Is he awake?"

Leonardo shook his head and backed into the room before quietly closing the door. Splinter braced his hands across Donatello's shoulders as Leonardo approached. He raised a brow.

"I told you to get Michelangelo-"

"Mikey can't do it."

Splinter rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. He muttered something under his breath in Japanese. Sometimes it was easy to forget that his ninja were only children playing at being warriors. He huffed through his nose and eyed Leonardo sharply.

"You must do as I say."

Leo straightened up. Ready to accept his second chance. "I will."

Splinter sighed. "He will need the red pouch. There are capsules inside. Give him two. Place them into his mouth."

With hands that trembled, Leo searched inside the bag and produced the bag. He fumbled and finally pulled the strings to open it and pinched out two oddly shaped pills; chalky and pinkish gray. They stuck to his fingers from the blood and Leo did his best not to think about it.

"Got them."

"Put them into your brother's mouth," Splinter said as he returned to murmuring softly into Donnie's ears to be calm.

Leo did as he was told, but it was hard because Donatello was clenching his jaw. He tried again and nearly dropped the tiny pills. He made a desperate sound and Splinter reached up. He squeezed his brother's cheeks until his mouth opened with a gut-wrenching whimper. His legs kicked feebly. Leo's eyes snapped to Splinter, but he was concentrating on Donnie's face. He dropped the pills into Donatello's mouth.

"I am not trying to hurt you, my son. Swallow. Swallow this now. You will be at peace." Splinter held his hand over Donatello's mouth as he shook his head weakly from side to side. Twin tears streaked down his face, leaving light green lines through the grime and blood. He choked and his throat worked.

"W-What are they?"

Only now did Splinter's amber eyes shoot to Leonardo. "They will bring him no harm. They will make him sleep. Deeply."

And as Splinter said the words, Donatello's body seemed to collapse all at once and lay heavy and still against the stained cot. His head lulled to one side. His breathing was soft pants and a low whimper with each exhale. Splinter closed his eyes, with a slight heave, he straightened up and set to finishing cleaning the wound. But first he pulled the blanket his son had kicked free up and over his legs. Leonardo reached out with one hand and held his brother's arm.

"Use the warm water to sponge him down, Leonardo. Then go clean yourself."

Leo nodded. With an exhale of relief and exhaustion, thinking his father had, as usual, come to the rescue and made everything better, he said, "I'm glad the worst is over."

Splinter paused. He turned his head to speak over his shoulder. "Do not say such things in the face of tragic events, my son. You tempt fate with your arrogant naiveté."

Leonardo ducked his head and dropped his eyes. Suddenly ashamed. His cheeks flared. He didn't mean anything by it and his father's superstitions often left him confused and anxious. Something Donatello would refute as nonsense whenever Leo tried to talk with him about it. He'd never say that to Splinter's face, of course. But Donatello did not believe in anything outside of science. But despite his brother's assurances that there was nothing to Splinter's eccentric spiritual beliefs, Leo often found himself wondering if he believed in the same 'silly' notions or not. His father seemed rooted to his convictions. And Leonardo tended to lean towards whatever his sensei put faith in. He felt cold and a little sick and wished he could take back what he'd just said. His stomach started to hurt as the adrenaline wore off, leaving him feeling spent and shaky.

"I . . . I didn't mean. I know it's bad. I just meant, for-for now . . . that he's sleeping and you can fix his hand."

Splinter shook his head. "I cannot fix this, Leonardo. His hand was severely injured." As Leonardo's face mottled, Splinter softened his tone. But he was not going to spare his oldest son the truth of the matter. If any of them had to build the strength to face reality head-on, it was Leonardo. "My son, you passed him through miles of sewers to get to our home, if he does not develop an infection, then you may thank the spirits that the worst is past. Until then, there is much at risk."

Leo swallowed dryly and nodded his head, unable to speak.

"Get to work," Splinter said and with a heavy sigh, he returned to the gruesome sight of what remained of his child's extremity; knowing that it was unlikely that Donatello would ever be able to use it properly again. His shaking hands balled into quivering fists and he needed a moment to collect himself. Not for the first time, he wished he were human again, with the deft fingers and thumbs that held no sharp claws to inadvertently scratch and add to the chances of infection. He knew that as a mutant rat that there was a chance that he carried bacteria simply on his flesh that may come to hurt his child. He said a quick prayer to protect his child from further harm and attended the oozing wounds with steadier hands. For there was no one else that could help his boy. And he had to do with what he'd been given.


	3. Borrowed Strength

**Chapter 3 – Borrowed Strength**

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An hour later, Leonardo emerged from the room, looking haggard and drawn. Raphael brought him a mug of cocoa that he looked at but couldn't even think of taking. His stomach, much like the rest of him, felt raw and sensitive. His arms hung heavy at his sides.

"Here, Leo," Raph said quietly. "You okay?"

He wrinkled his nose at the bitter scent and tilted his head back. Raph offered it up and Leo turned away without a word, too tired to politely refuse the offer, too spent to speak just then. He just wanted to sit down and catch his breath. He skirted slowly around Raph towards the couch where April and Mikey sat watching him with similar expressions of hopeful anxiety and dread.

Raph looked at the mug in his hands and felt a flash of irritation. He stomped into the kitchen and poured the contents down the drain. It took some effort not to smash the porcelain mug into the basin, but he controlled himself. Leave it to Leo to act better than all of them at a time like this. He gripped the edge of the sink and did his best to calm down. It wasn't his fault that he . . . he almost fainted like a weakling in there. It was just that he wasn't expecting . . . he didn't realize how bad . . . The image of the finger bones poking through the smoking flesh came at him and his stomach lurched as black spots washed the edges of his vision in darkness.

"Dammit," he ground out.

He had to get a grip already. He swallowed and the taste of bile was nearly enough to push him over the edge. He pressed his hand to his mouth and looked into the living room to see Leo talking in a low voice with April. He huffed. And of course Fearless had to be the hero. Staying in there with Splinter the entire time and then coming out like it was nothing. Like he didn't need anything as comforting as the cocoa he'd made for him . . . or a soft spoken word from his stupid lunk-head of a brother. With a sigh he moved into the room with them as Splinter crept from the lab, closing the door behind him but leaving it open just a crack.

All faces turned in Splinter's direction. Leo stood up and immediately hurried into the kitchen past Raph to get a kettle of water on for tea. Raph gritted his teeth, thinking sour thoughts about his brother being the biggest kiss-up, but said nothing. Even Raph understood this wasn't a time for petty bickering that would get nothing accomplished. He set his hurt to one side. April closed in on Splinter as he moved towards the couch.

Splinter wiped his hands on a blood-splattered rag. He gave their friend a tentative glance. April approached him as if he were an explosive device set to go off with the slightest motion. Her hands were clasped together and pressed between her breasts.

"Splinter? How is he?"

Splinter considered the question, his amber eyes flicking from her young face to the floor before he spoke. Deciding at the last second to be as truthful as possible. "Donatello sustained a terrible injury. He is unconscious for now." He paused. "The likelihood that he will be . . . that his hand will . . ." he shook his head and sighed as April's face grew paler; eyes brighter as they grew wider. The freckles spattered across her nose and cheeks stood out in contrast to the gray of her skin. She appeared much younger than her years. Fragile and delicate. Despite this illusion, he knew it was folly to lie to her. She would learn of his condition soon enough. Besides that, the girl was strong. In some ways, stronger than his sons.

She'd displayed courage time and again in the face of enemies, resilience when her father was taken from her and mutated; her friendship with his sons endeared her to him, her patience with them was a gift; a steady, enduring heart beat within her chest. Just being near her brought out a paternal inclination that was unlike what he felt towards his boys. It was softer, less rigid and more compassionate. When she was around he missed Miwa with a fierce ache. At once he was weakened by April's affection and strengthened. It was good that she was there, now.

"We will have to keep hope in our hearts that I will not be forced to remove the damaged limb. However, I fear that may be the outcome, after all."

The words he spoke struck like tiny blows. Miniature fractures erupted and spread through her heart. She absorbed his words and as they settled with their meaning intact, coming together like a puzzle to form an awful picture of the bleak situation, she reeled. She pressed a hand to her mouth. She shook her head. Donatello would lose his hand. Because of a spattering of seconds where he was not careful enough. When he moved a fraction of a space between complacent normality and irrevocable consequence. In the blink of an eye, his life was to be changed, forever. It was too horrible.

"But he needs both hands, Splinter," she said weakly, noting how stupid she sounded as the room titled.

Splinter jerked forward. He grabbed her shoulder as she swayed. She blinked with glassy eyes, confused and frightened. She hadn't meant to startle him. She pulled herself together and noted that she couldn't stop shivering. With a gentleness only a father could wield, he guided her back to the couch. Once she slumped onto the cushion next to his son, Raphael, who threw an arm around her shoulders, she murmured, just loud enough for them to hear, "He'll be okay. It won't come to that."

Splinter nodded sadly. If only it could be that simple. To will something to be or not to be reality. There would be so much he would fix. So many mistakes along the path of his life that he would correct.

On the other side of April, Mikey wrapped his arms around his middle and he shook his head in misery. "It's all my fault," he mumbled.

Splinter inched to one side until he stood in front of his youngest boy. He stroked Mikey across his head and gave him a reassuring pat on his cheek. "Do not fret, my son. It is not your fault. When you and your brothers go out into battle, you each run the risk of a mishap . . . a miscalculation. Your foes are many and their ingenuity and cunning more than a match for even the most skilled of ninja."

Mikey looked up at him, eyes brimming with tears, full of misery. "B-But I stood there, like an _idiot,_ trying to think of a name. If Donnie hadn't shoved me out of the way, that woulda been my face!"

Splinter shook his head sharply. "No more of this. Holding onto guilt for something that you did not do does nothing to improve the situation. Not for you or your brother. Do you understand me?" he snapped, eyes flashing with irritation.

Mikey flinched at his father's tone. He nodded morosely and took in a broken breath. April leaned gently into him. She felt him press back, and both took comfort in the contact.

Splinter wished he could offer more words of comfort and fewer sharp commands, but perhaps that was what his child needed right now. He did not mean to be harsh, to any of them. He did not want to add to their stress. He ran a hand over his face, ears flattened. He could not think straight about parenting right now. His mind was a jumbled mess; his heart, battered and wounded by the past several hours' events as well as what no doubt lay ahead for his boy. A shiver of ill foreboding passed through him. He couldn't think about that now. He needed to sit for a moment. Collect himself. Gain his composure and calm. Set the example for his boys.

He turned and dropped the soiled rag to the coffee table, feeling his children and April's gazes each fall in unison to stare at the stains, a painted testimony to Donatello's suffering. Splinter sat heavily, opposite from April, into the loveseat's plump cushion. Leo entered the room, a mug in his hand. All of them huddled closer with an unconscious need for contact; for comfort. The air hung silent and full of apprehension. Splinter took the proffered tea from Leonardo with a slight nod. Raph and Leo noticed the way their father's hands shook as he reached out for it. They exchanged quick worried glances. Leonardo moved backwards and sat on the edge of the sofa, ready to get his father whatever else he may need, despite his exhaustion. He perched there next to Mikey who flanked April on one side with Raph on the furthest end, one arm still braced across April's shoulders without realizing it.

"I have done what I could." He glanced at his claws with some revulsion; withholding his fears that he had merely exacerbated the situation by handling his child with his own bare hands. He swallowed. "He will need time to rest. Keep the lair quiet." Splinter wondered how long his remedy would keep Donatello under the refuge of sleep. Sweeping his vision across his gathered family, he read in their expressions the worry and exhaustion etched around their eyes, the grim lines of their pressed lips, the rigid way they held their shoulders, hands clasped together, knuckles pale.

"You should all rest while he is at peace."

Splinter gazed down into the swirling steam, feeling his age. The herbal scent should have been comforting. It stung his sensitive nose. He felt dizzy; his body and limbs loose and weighed down all at once. The struggling and whimpers of his child in the throes of anguish haunted the edges of his mind. He understood that they would for quite some time; knowing that the worst was still to come.

How could this have happened to his boy? His jaw clenched and released. If there was anyone to be angry with, it was himself. A feeling like grief washed through him. How useless he was. How pathetic in this form. What he would have given to have been able to take his boy to a hospital! His chest tightened. His clawed fingers pressed into the sides of the mug. The heat of the tea permeating the porcelain reminded him of his child's temperature.

Donatello had felt so warm as he wrapped the injured remains of his hand and arm. Unnaturally so. He knew what it meant. Fever. His breathing turned shallow. The fever indicated what he feared most: infection.

The hand would have to be removed. There was no doubt. To save his life, he would have to take the child's hand and possibly part of his arm. But how? How could he do that without incurring more damage? He was not a doctor. His first aid knowledge was limited at best. Setting a broken bone or awkwardly stitching a gash was the extent of the experiences he knew over the years in raising four independent and wild boys. Watching over one with the flu through the long hours of the night. But removing a limb? Doing so in such a way that it did not lead to more damage or worse infection?

Despair dragged at him. And he would have cried out in frustration had he been alone. But the weight of his family's eyes were upon him and they alone were what kept him from losing his composure. They wanted reassurances and hope where there was none to give. He needed to remain positive and thank god that he still had his child. But he felt unable to muster the courage needed to be grateful just then. There was no room for gratitude in his angry, exhausted heart just then. And he had nothing to give to his family. He could not bear even to look his children in the eye and tell them lies. He'd failed to keep their brother whole. This failure a symptom of his cursed mutation, limiting his access to medicine and medical care for his family, the ones he was tasked to keep safe and secure. To provide and look after. He had failed.

This acknowledgement of his failings drew his exhausted body deeper into the chair. He blinked hard and squinted. He was so very tired. Tired of the struggle. Tired of enduring in a world that put all its efforts into placing obstacles in the way of their survival. Tired of the very nature of man. So cruel and ignorant. His child suffering without justification for it. And so much more to come. There was no reason for his boy to have lost his hand. His dominant hand. His poor boy. His gentle intellectual marvel. And the world cared not for his hardship and pain. One mutant child's pain meant nothing. There would be no safe harbor, no sanctuary from the prejudice against his boy for the way he was created should they seek outside help. He would be given no aid by the human world above. What waited above was merely more pain, more terror.

How could this have happened? He should have prepared them better. Trained them harder. This was his fault for failing at protecting them, for failing at securing their safety. He was a sorry excuse for a father. He should have never let them go above. He should have gone with them this evening. Guilt tore at his insides. The dizziness returned.

"He'll be okay, guys." April's voice brought him surfacing from his traitorous thoughts. She was holding Mikey and Raph's hands each in one of her own. Her eyes were bright and her face flushed with the steady determination of youth. "We'll get him through whatever comes next."

He stared curiously at the girl. Admiration bloomed inside his heart. Such strength after all she'd been put through. She was doing a better job at setting an example than he. It shamed him. He had to pull himself together. It did no good to sit and sulk about the world. None of this was new to him or his family. He had to be strong. For his children. Donatello, who was usually the one to administer care to his siblings would not be able to help him now. He may be able to answer a few questions, should he awaken and be lucid. Anything that this girl could offer in the way of help, whether it be encouragement, or fetching supplies and medicine, would be a godsend. Not for the first time, Splinter was deeply grateful that she was in their lives.

Yes. She could help them. There would need to be supplies gathered if not available in the lab. He would need antibiotics. Sterile equipment to sever the hand . . . something to help his child with the pain.

He would need to . . . need to . . . pray. He cradled the mug in his hands and listened to the sound of her voice reassuring his sons with gentle words. His eyes drifted shut as he, too, found some comfort there.

* * *

**A/N: **A big THANK YOU to theincredibledancingBetty who has offered sound advice and help with all things concerning amputation and the trouble that can arise from the situation, like gangrene, yay! LOL - Seriously, I could not do this without your help, Betty!

And I would not be writing without all you guys/gals following, favoriting and reviewing - so THANK YOU as well!


	4. What the Heart Knows

**Chapter 4 – What the Heart Knows**

* * *

The ceiling danced in jerking motions, first to the left, then to the right, until he realized he needed to focus on one spot in order for the movement to cease. But the lucid thought was gone nearly as soon as it took shape, replaced by colors that swam and spiraled, turning his stomach. Ugly colors; greenish grey and muted yellow; the colors of exposed organs. He turned his head and moaned.

A repeating image flashed between the opaque formless blots before his eyes: one of his hand, solid and strong before his face, bo clutched tightly with thick fingers, being illuminated by a blinding flash of pink-tinged light; the healthy emerald hue of his flesh glowing brightly then swelling rapidly only to deflate and collapse as the appendage blackened. What remained of his hand turning to ash, flaking in the air before his watering eyes; turning like embers caught in an updraft; the roaring of his blood in his ears as it was overtaken by the guttural shriek of his brother, Raphael, knocking him to safety before his face followed the fate of his hand.

He saw all of this, again and again; the loss of his hand; the destruction of the tissue and muscle; the glaring white of exposed bone. The non-stop movie reel within his mind rolled on mercilessly. His mouth worked and his tongue, thick and thirsty, flopped uselessly in his mouth. His eyes rolled. He pinched his lids shut, but the image continued in its grim consistency, replaying again and again.

"Mnoh," he cried softly and jumped as intruding hands, cold, so terribly cold, touched his cheek, flitting to his shoulder. He flinched and trembled at the contact. Why was it so cold? He frowned, doing his best to think, knowing the answer was just before him, if he could only focus, he would understand what was happening.

Like lightning striking, unexpected and unprepared for, a bolt of pain shot through him. Up from his left hand through his contracting bicep and into his shoulder and chest. Gritting his teeth, he seized and curled upwards from where he lay. His right hand swung around and he gripped his shoulder, pressing his injured arm close to his side. A low groan bubbled up from the back of his throat, dissolving to a whimper through his trembling lips. The pain, like the mouth of a savage beast clamping down on his limb, sharpened. He threw his head from side to side. His insides coiled and his legs turned to rubber and quivered. He panted through his clamped jaw, foam formed in the corners of his mouth.

"Donnie," a gentle voice came to him through the haze of pain. The feminine notes rang like the bell of a sanctuary. Distant but at the same time close, so close; the sound of it like an echo through the wrong end of a telescoping tunnel. He needed to focus on that sound. He flailed in his mind to take hold of it. But the pain was too distracting. The pain would not let him reach out without snapping him back to the center of it. Broken bits of sentences hit him as he surfaced from the anguish like a drowning man gasping for rescue.

"Let me . . . I need . . . can we . . . no . . . I've got the needle . . ."

He cracked his eyes opened, but it did him little good, for they were blurred with tears and rolling in panic; unconsciously seeking the source of the sweet voice that would rescue him from this anguish. April. April's voice.

_She shouldn't be here_, he thought clearly with a sudden flash of horror. _I don't want her to see me . . . not like this!_

And for a moment her face surfaced through the disjointed world of color and chaos; emerging like an angelic messenger, there to deliver him from all his fear, from all his pain. Through it all, he found her eyes and locked onto the blue.

"Hang on, Donnie," she said and someone took hold of his right arm and pried his fingers from around his shoulder. The movement sent new waves of crippling cramps through him. He braced the back of his head against the cot and could not stop his body as it bucked and thrashed. Something like ice was rubbed against the inner side of his elbow.

_"St-oh-p!"_ he managed between the groans and grunts of pain, but it came out shattered and reedy and hardly an actual word at all.

He was pinned back by a heavy form and his legs kicked uselessly as he started to wail. The pressure on his injured arm was unbearable. Why were they hurting him like this? The logical part of his brain that while all this time he was lost in distress seemed to look on from a great distance; it clucked its tongue in sympathy and went back to whatever had it more occupied at the moment. Reason and logic gave him no sense of comfort or salvation. Donatello was left to the animal frenzy of wallowing in pain he couldn't understand and helpless to make it stop.

A sharp prick rose from the chaos of torment he was feeling and he felt his right arm fill with a burning sort of frigid solvent. Against the rising temperature of his body, the shock of the iv fluid had his skull slamming back into the sweat-soaked pillow beneath his head. Rough hands brushed his face and he felt his jaw being squeezed. He fought weakly, but succumbed to having his mouth wrenched open. Something bitter melted instantly against his tongue and the taste was terrible and familiar; then water, again, too cold, flooded his mouth. He choked and sputtered, but finally managed to swallow, lapping at the drips and smacking his lips as the container was taken from him. Weakness spread throughout his body and he could only turn his face to one side now, all other movement too taxing to even consider. His panting calmed to shallow breaths, slowing to a more normal rate and the tensing muscles in his shoulders and legs grew lax though his heart still pounded uncomfortably against his rib cage.

With a languid effort, he blinked; eyes focusing on the closest thing to him: her face. It loomed there, almost floating, superimposed over the blurry backdrop of the lab. Her large eyes were filled with sorrow and fragile reassurance. His gaze drifted but then refocused sharply on her lips, glistening as they moved. He became aware that she was speaking but he could not make out the words. They were muffled and masked by the tinny ringing in his ears. He wished that he could hear what she was saying. She looked so worried. It was almost funny. Despite the weariness dragging on his body, he wanted nothing more than to surprise her with a leap up onto the cot, revealing that he was just fine, teasing her for her sad look. At the same time a tiny feeling of satisfaction at the thought that she was concerned over him wormed its way through the haze of fading pain and exhaustion. For all his brave and boisterous thoughts, however, he could do nothing but lay there, his breathing frail but steady now. He had nothing with which to impress her, as it always seemed to be the case.

The ridiculously timed thought of, _April, you're so beautiful_, flitting through his drugged mind. His lips moved to tell her not to worry about him; to explain that he didn't know what she was saying or maybe so lost in his stupor, he was confessing every hidden desire of his heart to her but could do nothing to cease his outpouring of secrets. He was too detached to worry, though; he was floating away from the scene and his senses were drifting to a place where all things, great or small, were inconsequential.

April leaned in close to Donatello, telling him of the IV that they'd given him, telling him of the medicine that would make him drowsy and sleep when suddenly she noticed his lips begin to move. She leaned in closer to hear him, for his words were mere exhales exiting his lips, but still, she wanted to know what it was he was trying to tell her. She would do anything to make him more comfortable and wanted desperately to be of some use to her friend. She inclined her head and listened. Her eyes widened as the breathy, broken, whispered words slipped from Donnie's lips, _"Beautiful, so beautiful . . . April . . . April." _

He flinched feebly under her fingertips delicately pressed against his bottom lip. While part of her did not want Donatello to be uttering such things while under the obvious strain and stress he was suffering from, not to mention the strange, homemade pills that Master Splinter had left in the lab with him, another part wanted the moment to remain unspoken, private; until he could, with clarity in intent and purpose, confess his feelings outright, should he wish, despite knowing them already. Her fingertips lingered and with a gentle caress, she moved her hand.

"Shh, don't talk, Donnie. You just need to rest right now. You need to rest," she repeated as his eyes drifted closed and remained as his chest rose and fell at a much more calm rhythm.

She felt they both deserved that moment to be perfect. When there was nothing hindering them. No fear. No time constraints. No drugs or IVs or harsh lights from the lab or a brother loitering in helpless fright only an arm's reach away.

She turned to look at Raphael standing on the other side of his brother's cot, staring at Donatello's turned face with an ashen expression. She noticed then, that he was out of breath.

"Raph," she said quietly and his face snapped up at the sound of her voice as though she startled him. She ran her tongue over her lip, "I've got him now. The medicine and the fluids from the IV should really help. Why don't you go to bed now, you've been up all night."

"No," he shook his head with the word. "I need ta stay here in case . . . What if he wakes up again?"

"Then I will get Master Splinter or Leo," she explained to him in a patient voice.

For a moment it seemed that he was hurt that she did not include him in the list of people she'd alert if Donatello awoke and needed help.

"You did a really good job just now. I know it . . . was kind of . . ." she decided not to bring up how frightening it was to hear the strangled sound erupt from the cot. To realize that he was seizing from severe dehydration, just as she had read earlier in the evening online. The events of the trauma along with the shock and then the fever all added up to him getting delirious.

Her aunt's experiences as an ER nurse gave April limited understanding of some emergency and basic medical treatments. She never thought she'd need to remember some of the stories her aunt was always telling her and her dad. She wished to god that she'd paid more attention. Thankfully, she was able to search the Mayo Clinic's website for pertinent information. And having worked as a candy-striper in the hospital where her aunt worked one summer, she'd seen her fill of needle injections and IV applications. The thought of putting in the IV had been her idea, but she had no idea if the Hamato family had anything like that. Raph knew where Don kept some of the supplies but had no idea what she meant about an 'IV'. It was Mikey who hung out with Donatello all the time and he was getting ready to run and fetch his little brother when what she was saying clicked in place in his mind. After she explained what the IV bag looked like, he raced to the other side of the room, and opened a cabinet door to reveal several lined up.

He'd been sitting in the folding chair across the room, arms crossed over his chest and staring into space with a resolute expression, as though by glaring into space, he could somehow be of use, he could somehow make all of this evaporate. He'd refused to sit in the much more comfortable computer chair when she offered earlier in the evening. After Leonardo had draped a blanket over their father and sent Mikey to bed. Not long after he was nodding off and April insisted that he get some rest. Leo only agreed after she promised to wake him after an hour, no more. That had been three hours ago. Raphael, alone, remained wide awake. If it wasn't for the dark circles slowly forming under his eyes she would have thought he wasn't the least bit tired. Now, however, looking at him, she could see the stress and exhaustion clearly in the shadows of his face. She felt as drained as he looked.

She took in a ragged breath, "I'm glad that you were awake with me." She sat back, keeping one hand partially on Donatello's arm, unwilling to separate herself from him completely. Thinking in the back of her mind that they needed to get him an anti-inflammatory for that fever or at least a cool rag to bring it down a bit. She knew the fluids from the IV would help, as well.

"I couldn't have gotten that needle into him without you holding him down." He grimaced and she quickly changed topic, "I think that Splinter will be relieved that we let him sleep. He looked so drained, didn't he?" Raph said nothing. "And now, you should go to bed."

He fidgeted, looking unsure.

"I promise I'll let you know if anything happens, okay?"

Raph nodded but it was as though he only did so to placate her and wasn't actually listening. He was staring now at Donatello's cheek. A smudge of a bruise was forming. Raph's breath caught. "I didn't mean to grab his face so hard," he said, voice breaking on the last word.

"It's okay."

"No, it ain't. I think, oh, I hurt him. Look, I can see a bruise!" He pointed and stepped back. His face suddenly crushed into a deep frown. "I can't do anything right. First with Master Splinter and now . . ." He was getting more upset, chest heaving as he huffed and puffed between words. He raised his hands and dropped them. His voice was a hoarse whisper but it grew more and more frantic.

"I shouldn't have started to fight with Leo out there. If I wasn't being so stubborn and so _stupid_, then he and Mikey wouldn't have gone in there by themselves. If I had just listened to Leo, Don wouldn't've had to push Mikey outta the way." He fell silent and dropped his head, hands in fists at his sides.

April stood up and though she was wobbling on her feet with weariness, she crossed around the foot of Donatello's cot and placed her hand on Raphael's arm. He shuffled his feet to step away from her, but she caught him by the elbow. When he looked up, his eyes were bright and brimming with tears.

"I'm supposed to protect these guys, April. Me and Leo. We're the," he struggled and then managed, ". . . the A team," he choked out.

Knowing that a hug would only make him uncomfortable, April reached down and took his large hand into her own. She squeezed his fingers as, with his other hand, he pinched his eyes tightly shut, rubbing them aggressively. As if punishing his eyes for being so weak as to form tears.

"It was an accident, Raph," she said after a while. He looked away, but held fast to her fingers. "And from what I heard, you saved his life."

"Ah," he groaned and shook his head, looking at the opposite wall from her.

His body language told her he didn't want to be lauded as a hero just now. She took a deep breath as she eyed the boy that she'd grown to respect and admire beyond anything she ever felt for anyone else aside from maybe, her father, laying before her, injured but not defeated. Not by a long shot.

"If you hadn't gotten to him in time . . ." she couldn't finish.

She could tell he didn't want to talk about that in the hitch of his shoulders in the rigid way he froze. She blew out a shaky breath. Donatello was home. Raphael had saved his life whether he wanted to hear about it or not. She gave herself a mental shake. Dwelling on all the gruesome could have been's would get them nowhere. They had to push forward. There was a long road ahead of them and she just didn't know how they were going to make it to the other side. She felt shaky and weak but pooled what remained of her stubborn determination to be of some use. Even if it just meant saying encouraging words. If that's all she could do, she would do it until her voice ran out and she could only pantomime support to this boy and his family that was everything to her.

She squeezed his fingers. "He's gonna need you, Raph. When he gets through this part. When he has to learn . . . to adjust to what comes next." Her eyes flitted to the deep crimson stains that marred the thick bandages wrapped around his left hand. Or what was left of it. She shut her eyes quickly.

Raph released her hand and he turned to look at her with an intense gaze. He started talking all at once in an earnest way that she'd never really heard from him before. "April will you stay? Here, I mean. With him. You say he'll need me and yeah, I know that's right. I'm his brother and all and yeah, he'll need Mikey and Leo and Sensei . . . but . . . you. I mean, you know how he feels . . ."

Raph caught himself, shooting a flighty glance at his brother and shuffling his feet. He cleared his throat. "Uh, um. It's just, we could use all the help we could get. And I know it would mean a lot to him, uh, and us. If you were around more. For his, and uh, our moral."

April understood exactly what Raphael nearly blurted. Donatello's crush on her was the worst kept secret probably in the history of secrets. But she was willing to play along to spare his dignity. Willing to keep her own secrets until the time was right. Knowing that hers was one that she would hold on to only until the moment was right. Because she didn't want him to go another day, another hour, another minute with that crushing doubt and uncertainty living in his heart.

She'd had an inkling, over time, of a connection with him that started to swerve from the path of purely platonic feelings of affection and respect into something richer, deeper; something that created contradictions that she couldn't reconcile within her heart and mind. The process was not a stroke of lightning, but more glacial and more so, _impactful_.

It had started with small changes in the dynamic between them, and if she had to place a pin point in the time it had started, she would guess about the time she'd met Casey. When the boy talked to her of mistakes and forgiveness. When her anger turned to something less rigid and she'd made up her mind to give her friends a second chance. To give Donatello another chance.

The evolution of her feelings was not like any Hollywood concocted love story. No. Far from it. He made her furious more and more often over the strangest things. They argued more often and more heatedly than before. But there were also the soaring highs caused by this shift in her heart. It was beginning to be a small thrill to get him to be impressed with some fact or discovery she brought to the lair. She worked harder and harder to gain his approval, ever so slight that it might be, over grades on a project or her training with Master Splinter.

His attempts at flirtations, awkward and sweet though they were at turns, only served to infuriate her and had her pushing him away more than ever before. It was when he was fully engaged and distracted by a project that had her irked and doing everything in her power to catch his eye or engage him in some inane conversation. She'd continue to pester him until he'd lose his patience and snap at her. They'd end up fighting and she'd storm out of the lab as he stood looking baffled and full of remorse on the threshold, while she'd march out of the lair with no small satisfaction of having gained at least some of his attention for a bit; and at the same time she'd be completely bewildered at the fact that she would feel such a thing; especially when he was working on a retro-mutagen for her father! He'd apologize profusely later and she would pretend that she didn't know what he was talking about. Really, half the time, she didn't know what was happening with her. It was all a confused mess of tangled emotional ups and downs that she was wholly unprepared for.

It was the middle of the night only a few months ago, soon after he cured her father, that she awoke, heart hammering and breathless, gripping her sheets with clammy fists, with the knowledge like a fire raging in her heart; burning away the doubt and the veil that had shielded her mind so foolishly from what her heart had long ago recognized. She understood then. With all her heart and mind, she knew. She'd fallen for him. Fallen hard.

She'd been working on figuring out how to address this consciousness of her feelings; how to bring it all out; filled with fear that now that she was aware of her own heart's desire, the whole world seemed to be made of some fragile material; that one wrong move or one misspoken word could be enough to bring everything dear to her crashing to the ground; shattering it, forever. There was no easy way to manage what was before her. There was no one she could talk to. And yet, she'd been determined to work it out. Their relationship, oh how giddy she would get when she thought of that term as applied to her and Donatello, would not progress if she remained stalled in doubt and worry and never revealed to him her feelings. But just as she had fully made up her mind that he needed to know, as soon as possible, as soon as her courage and fate dictated the right moment, the moment she'd been awaiting to pounce upon, tragedy struck.

A lump was in her throat as she blinked from Donatello's wrapped hand and Raphael's earnest expression as he awaited her reply. She knew that there was nothing to be done for his hand. Splinter had all but announced to them earlier that it was going to need to be amputated. She felt her knees get weak, but steadied herself. No. It was too late to save his hand, but not too late to shelter his heart. It wasn't ideal, but she was done waiting. As soon as he was feeling better, she was going to tell him. She was going to tell him everything.

With a nod of her head she answered Raphael. "I need to make sure my dad is set, Raph. He's still jittery and a little, uh, _off_ since he's been human again," she started and Raph deflated before her eyes. Her father needed her, but she was sure that he could manage a few days alone at a time. It wasn't anything permanent. It wouldn't be easy running between their apartment, school and the lair, but what were friends for? Besides, she knew they needed her to gather supplies.

"But yeah, I think. Yes. I should be able to come down and stay for a while before I need to go back home again. Tomorrow, I'll go home and see Dad and then I promise I'll come back here, okay? I can bring a bunch of medicine and medical supplies back with me. My aunt hordes the stuff from her job, so we have, like, an entire medicine closet filled with stuff you guys could use."

She didn't know when it happened, but Raph had somehow taken both of her hands in his. He listened with a grim, but hopeful expression. And when she gave him her final answer he broke out into a most rare and fantastic sight: he smiled. Wide and genuine without irony or sarcasm. He smiled and April felt for the first time since she was woken in the middle of the night a full twenty-four hours ago something like happiness. It was tiny and fragile, but it was real and she held onto it with all her might.


End file.
